A Debt Owed
by Satipheen
Summary: There are many things they accept, many things they forgive in District One; delight in torture, brutal violence, senseless murder. But one thing they don't accept, one thing they never forgive is cowardice. My name is Storm Haywire and I was the first Career who wasn't a Career at all.
1. Chapter 1

**A Debt Owed**

**Chapter I**

Only here in District One would a girl named Storm not get a second look; not when there's Glitters', Shimmers' and all sorts of ridiculously pompous names like that at every turn.

Sure it's worth a snicker or two when the six foot boy with the burly muscles called Sparkle walks in, but the laugh suddenly sticks in your throat as you watch him dissect two training dummies within ten seconds, and you consider then Sparkle ain't actually that funny afterall.

Gunmetal grey ominous clouds were stacking up along the horizon and a stiff breeze that carried a sharp bite swept in from the ocean as I climbed the white porch steps of the huge building on the coast.

A storm was brewing.

I gave a wry smile; how very appropriate. Call it irony or just plain payback for naming your kid storm but – I hated storms.

Turning on my heel I shouldered my way through the double mahogany doors, squaring my shoulders resolutely as I walked up to the desk, managing a tight smile at the lady who sat there.

"Can I help you?"

I look at her – hard; she knows damn well why I'm here, the _only _reason why I could or ever would be here.

She flinches just slightly in response to my dark glare, her own eyes sharpening in challenge because this is District One. The other Districts talk about their constant fight for survival – for food, for medicine, for anything, but here in District One it's each other we fight with.

"I'm here to see Mrs Haywire," I finally manage, begrudgingly.

She nods just slightly – she won this time.

We walk down the familiar hallways, my nose burning with the clinical smell of metallic cleanliness that emanates from the spotless white walls and the gleaming linoleum floor.

We reach the door – _Room 103, _key in the lock, a resounding click.

I inhale deeply, grimacing slightly when all I can taste on my tongue is that bitter taste of something metal. Outside a fork of lightening finally arches across the thunderous black clouds and I flinch as the soft patter of the raindrops against the roof increases to a dull relentless roar.

Great, simply marvellous. Today of all days there is a storm…

I'd call it fate or destiny only it reminds me of two girls I know with suchnames and besides such things don't exist.

All outcomes are inevitable.

People make decisions… _I can't…I'm sorry…_those decisions affect others, the outcome is a culmination of their decisions. _I did it._

Inevitable.

That's why I'm here now; I'm 18 years old and at the Reaping next week I'm going to volunteer.

…

I pull out a chair, wincing as it screeches loudly against the floor. The door closes – locks and then I'm alone, with _her._

"Mama?"

She's agitated I can tell, looking worriedly to the window as she chews hungrily at her nails. She hates storms too.

_It had been stormy that day…_

I swallow thickly, looking about the room and its sparse belongings trying to find something, anything that will give me an opening to some form of conversation.

"How are you feeling?"

It's pathetic, and I cringe as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Her gaze snaps up to me, immediately suspicious, immediately wary. She moves her fingers long enough away from her mouth to point an almost accusatory finger at me, her gaze narrowed before she speaks.

I'm already waiting for the paranoid accusations, the sharp bitter tone that is so unfamiliar, but when she speaks her voice seems so normal…_like it used to be…_ that I sit up straight in the chair, alert.

"You haven't been here in months," there is a gentle reprimand in her voice and I look down feeling a hot blush burn across my cheeks.

She's right of course, but what can I say? I hate this place, hate what she has become, hate having to face what I did to her.

I brace myself, grit my teeth, clench my fists, take measured breaths – all the things I've seen others do as they step into the training ring preparing for a fight. Because that's what this is, a fight – and _this time _I must win.

"I've been training," I look up, meet her silver-blue eyes.

The paranoid woman gazing at me suspiciously as she chews at her nails like a child melts away and I see something of the mother I once knew seep back in, filling this husk of a shell for a brief moment as her chin tilts up, eyes assessing me – but not me.

She's looking at the outline of my toned arms, assessing how straight I sit in my chair, eyeing the honed calluses on my hands that all testify to what I've said.

She grunts it seems in grim approval or maybe I imagine it; the thunder is booming outside in huge claps, fingers of white brilliance splitting the sky and I can't be sure anymore.

She's waiting for it, I know she is – it's like electricity licking across my skin, this brief moment before the plunge.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry –

"I'm going to volunteer."

I'm not sure if she screams first or lunges but suddenly we're on our feet, the chair falls with a bang like a gunshot to the floor and I have her wrists restrained in my hands as snarls rip from her lips.

Oh but mama, you forget – I've been training. I effortlessly hold her back, her once lean and agile frame is nothing but skin and bones now.

Nurses rush in after too long minutes as I've held this woman I barely recognise at bay, snarling and snapping at me like some Capitol mutt.

They drag her off me, force her onto the bed – she's fighting back against them – like everyone is this District always is fighting against someone.

I don't wait to see the rest as I stalk from the room, cringing internally each time the thunder rumbles and a scream punctuates the air in tandem with it.

…

I should never have gone to the sanatorium this morning I think but it's too late now. Some idiotic sense of duty compelled me to do it and now I regret it.

I go straight to the training building – not because it will calm me, not even slightly, but because I'm good at it.

It is something I can do, unlike trying to fix the mess of a woman back in that sanatorium by the ocean.

I've trained – I'm ready – I'm deadly.

The thing is walking into a District One training building – so is everyone else to some varying degree or level.

That's the reason why most volunteer; here in District One its nothing special to be deadly, we're all deadly, that's why we train but suddenly you volunteer and you're someone special, someone to be revered and worshipped – and feared.

You come back a hero – you've won the fight.

The sounds of clashing metal, the grunts and voices coloured in anger greet me as I enter into the spacious main training area; it's nothing new though – some prefer to be deadly silent, others to be deadly terrifying with almost inhuman shrieks as they attack.

I prefer close combat – hand-to-hand.

Long range weapons don't interest me – to shoot an enemy down from a distance is impressive, even practical but it's a coward's way out – _and I can't be that anymore._

I squash down that voice in the back of my head, if there is ever a place not to show weakness in District One it is here.

I make my way over to the knives and collecting a few I position myself in front of the targets.

Tally is already there, throwing knives at a practice dummy with ease, before going to retrieve them.

She grins at me brightly as she returns, slipping her knives back into their places on her belts.

I have never understood people who became attached to weapons – I've watched Tally hone and sharpen her knives for hours, shining them with a cloth as she almost croons over them. A weapon is a weapon – the most important thing is who wields it.

"Reaping in a week, eh Storm?" she winks at me and I pretend to line up my target as I try and gauge her tone of voice.

My first knife flies embedding itself directly in the skull, second the throat clean through the windpipe, third the heart. Throwing knives are only good if you are sure of a kill shot otherwise you are just giving your weapon away and opening yourself for a counter-attack.

Tally's eyes narrow – I'm better than her and she knows it.

"You gonna volunteer?" Tally's voice is baiting as she idly drags her thumb along the blunt edge of one of her precious knives.

But I don't get to answer for suddenly the doors to the training centre swings open and the real reason I'm here enters.

Head held high, ramrod straight back, slate grey eyes – she strides into the centre, towards the fighting pit.

Subtlety never was her strong point.

I place the knives back on the table, hearing the excited whispers of younger kids being exchanged as they point and whisper.

I can feel the moment her gaze falls on me, eyes boring into my back with a silent cold fury. My spine unconsciously straightens, stiffening as I turn around and meet her livid gaze.

There's precisely about twelve seconds it takes for her to stride over from the pit to me.

Oh, but I'm ready for you this time.

She immediately goes in brash – as always, her fist coming up to slam into my face but I catch it with ease.

It isn't shock that registers on her face but a grim smile, "finally you grow some backbone," she hisses.

I push her back, but she barely moves two steps away from me and immediately she is back in, a feint left, my fist lashes out hits her in the gut – doesn't matter, she built her stomach up to be like iron a long time ago, she grabs the arm that I don't retract quickly enough from my punch, intending to twist it around in that age old move – not this time, I think – my foot catches her around the ankle and as I expected she brings me down with her but I have the momentum and as we fall I drive my knee into the vulnerable space just below her ribs at her diaphragm. Sly move; but fighting fair doesn't win anything.

She snarls at me, eyes like the storm that is still raging outside – fighting, always fighting.

"ENOUGH!" we both look up; it's Anderson; District One Mentor and Past Victor.

Slowly and reluctantly we get to our feet, brushing ourselves down, we stand side by side shoulders brushing; that small fission of electricity fizzing between us; always ready to fight.

"Get out," he spits at us; he's sick of us disrupting the training and with one week to the Reaping he is no mood to be indulgent.

I prepare myself for us to pick up the fight as soon as we leave the training centre – to be ready for the tackle but none comes.

She stands for a moment, rain soaking her white-blonde hair to her skin looking out towards the worsening storm.

I can't look towards the horizon, my gut roils uncomfortably, and so I wait.

She finally speaks.

"You went and seen mother today," the detached formal tone throws me for a moment – so that was why she was late to training.

"It had been a while – "

"Cut the crap!" she snarls vehemently at me, always ready to fight.

Our identical slate grey gazes slide to meet one another's in a stubborn battle of wills but Tempest unlike I lives up to her name, she can never keep her silence.

"I warned you to stay away from the training," her knuckles are stretched white with the pressure of her clenched fists.

I'm tempted to answer but I don't – anything we would say now has been said before.

We stand stoic, avoiding one another's gazes in the pouring rain; completely different yet alike in so many ways my twin sister and I.

"We should get back, dad…" I begin but she's gone before I can finish the sentence.

We trudge home in the relentless sheets of rain, a steady distance of a few feet kept between us at all times.

When I reach the porch Tempest is already toeing off her squelching shoes, she barely acknowledges my presence as I start to do likewise.

She's just wringing out her dripping ash blonde hair when the front door is pummelled open and an eight-year old with the cockiest grin you ever saw leaps out.

I can't help the smile that curls my lips, the warmth that blooms from somewhere inside me that pushes me to ignore my chilled limbs as two beefy arms tackle my waist.

I chuckle, ruffling my kid brother's hair; it seems like years since I have seen him, despite it only being this morning, and his sunny smile is the one thing that has made today bearable.

"Elson," Tempest's voice is cold, as cold as the ice rain that is soaking through to my very bones.

Elson turns to look at her, defiant already with fierce eyes but there's an innocence in his eyes also; an inability to comprehend.

He wasn't old enough to understand what happened two years ago, he'll never understand why Tempest will only ever look at me now with burning hatred, why our father acts as though I don't exist and why his mother can never leave _Room 103 _of the building that overlooks the sea where the storms brew.

He detracts himself from me though sensing that something is wrong with his actions.

With a firm directing hand on his shoulder Tempest directs him into the house – _away from me – _the door slamming in her wake.

Thunder rumbles loudly for a moment, lightening casting an eerie light for a split second on the sea roiling like some incensed creature. I shudder before quickly entering the house.

It doesn't matter that she is far from me down in that building by the sea – I can still hear her screams.

* * *

**Okay so if you've made it this far thanks very much for reading etc. and I'd love to hear your thoughts - constructive criticism, love it, hate it...etc. **

**Also; I realise things might be a bit confusing - a lot of failed attempts from me to create _'mystery & __suspense' _but if you stick with it I promise things get explained pretty soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A Debt Owed**

**Chapter II**

Dinner is silent – silence is a constant companion in this house.

The chair screeches when dad takes a seat at the dinner table – I wince.

Ruby comes into the room slowly, one hand pressed to the small of her back as she lowers herself down into the place where mum would have set. I see Tempest's eye twitch, but Dad gives Tempest a long hard look – fighting without words, always fighting – and Tempest stalks from the room, refraining from making a jibe at the heavily pregnant woman who is now in name our stepmother.

Ruby helps fix Elson's napkin as Dad gives a short sigh and for a moment I think he will look at me, like he once would have – because we both know Tempest's short temper – but he doesn't.

Tempest inevitably strides back into the room, the plate and cutlery in her hands as she sets the extra unneeded place at my right. That place will never be filled but she does it to remind me, so I can never forget – before she takes her own place, on dad's right facing me, glaring at me – fighting me.

We eat. We talk. I mostly to Elson or Ruby will give me a few sympathetic questions.

It's as the clatter of plates getting cleared away fills the air that Tempest decides she doesn't want to fight silently anymore.

"She went to see mum this morning."

There's no need to say my name, Dad already knows it's me. I don't look up though just continue clearing away the table.

"Storm?" my father's voice is firm, unyielding, demanding an answer – as it always is.

"It had been a while…" I begin again, Tempest makes to cut across me but Dad stops her.

Dad gives me a curious look and for a moment I can believe it's almost sympathetic.

"Dad you know what she's trying to do!" Tempest exclaims sharply, her voice angry but also tinged with desperation.

Dad raises a questioning expectant brow at me – he always has been a man of few words.

That same feeling thrums through me – the still before the storm, before the fight.

"I'm going to volunteer."

There's no lunging or screaming this time, but all the same Tempest looks as though she wants to dissect me piece by piece right here on the kitchen table.

Her whole body is shaking in barely contained anger, "no you're not," she snarls.

And for once I let it hiss through my veins, the adrenaline, the electricity – the fight.

"You can't stop me," I intone dangerously.

"Enough," it's the same thing Anderson has been telling us for years now but our father barely has to mutter it and the anger dissolves from our stances simultaneously.

He looks up at me, an almost assessing look like my mother had given me this morning only it's not; he's not looking at my hands that could easily snap his neck or the silvery scars tracing across my face all that show how much I have been training for this – he's looking _at_ me, through me, in me.

And what he sees doesn't impress him.

I am strong, can lift a body twice my weight – I have endurance, can run for hours without stopping – I have speed, I can outrun everyone at that training centre.

But he looks away – it's not enough, _not enough to erase what I've already done._

_Coward._

I grit my teeth, feel the murderous anger rise up again ready to be unleashed and I'll tear him, Tempest all of them apart – show them that I'm not that anymore.

"We'll see at the Reaping," he says.

Tempest is almost as furious as me, but she doesn't voice it – not to our father, never to him.

She wants him to tell me that I can't, that I should just let this last chance slide by.

Tempest is going to volunteer this year too – she's ready, but so am I.

Her gaze snaps around to blaze angrily at me, but her anger is more at that fact that she can do nothing.

I have already made my decision – going to see our mother this morning was the last step, cementing my choice in stone.

…

It's a clear day; the sun is bright in the sky even if it is cold.

I would take the lack of tumultuous weather as a good omen if I believed in such things.

I'm the last to get up that morning. I hear Tempest stomp about in her room above mine – _afterwards, it had been impossible for us to share a room, Tempest had moved into _that _room._

She readies herself before dawn – out to train. If I listen I can hear her grunts as she does push-ups, crunches; all to make sure she looks as strong as possible for the cameras.

Ruby gets up next, she hums softly as she makes breakfast. Ruby is strange, I've always thought so. There's this softness about her, a gentleness in the way her white hands flit about like pale birds no matter what she does whether it's smoothing a struggling Elson's hair into place or skinning a rabbit. It's like she _doesn't belong in District One._

I don't hear dad get up – I never do; just hear his rough timbre voice as he calls stern words of improvement to Tempest as she continues her training.

"Move your legs faster Tempest."

Elson is like a hurricane getting up; he's excited for the Reapings today even though it's another four years before he will be officially able to participate.

Barely eight though and he's strong – he'll make a great Victor one day.

They eat breakfast together.

I hear Ruby breathing heavily as she makes her way up the stairs to my room, as quietly as she can she enters and places the mug of bitter coffee and plate of eggs and bacon on the bedside table. Protein and plenty of energy for today of course.

I wolf down breakfast with little thought, ready quickly.

For girls in District One there are two outfits you may wear for the Reapings; you either try for the flirty dress – mature not girly though, or an outfit that emphasises your training.

I can no longer do flirty and attractive; I gave up that option in pursuit of training. My nose is irreversibly crooked after one too many breaks, my body and face criss-crossed with silvery protruding scars. I can no longer pull of lithe and svelte; my body's only functions now are strength, speed and agility. There is not one wasted ounce on my bones.

My hair is in its familiar ash-blonde braid hanging heavy, comforting down my back. I should have cut it by now; it gets in my way and one too many times has it been my downfall in a fight when my opponent has used it to haul me back with like a leash on a disobedient dog. But, I suppose it's the last indulgent trait I've allowed myself.

I'm registered and walk to my designated corded off area.

Tempest has pushed herself to the front in her Capitol tailored clothes that she has saved up since the last Reaping to buy. A slim black top and trouser combo; it highlights her feminine curves but at the same time it makes her look dangerous.

Tally gives me a friendly wave from the girl's 17 area; it's belied by the challenging gleam in her predatory smirk. However I give her a discreet acknowledging wave back; I suppose on some level Tally and I are friends; it was I who taught her how to throw knives after she kept getting beat to a pulp in the fighting pit; she's too slight for hand-to-hand combat no matter how much she wishes she wasn't.

Seria Verbatim strides confidently onto the stage, grinning widely as he shakes the numerous Victor's hands with a vicious sort of delight.

As far as Capitolites go, Seria ain't that bad – could be worse. We had one of those flighty little fools with their painted faces before but the thing about District 1 is we make our own television, we don't need some loud and obnoxious escort tottering about up on the stage to try and desperately add some excitement to the Reapings, like in the Outer Districts.

And I know this year – today, in particular that there is going to be some real excitement.

Seria welcomes us all, makes a few jokes about the younger groups straining at the front eagerly, a ripple of laughter.

That same video blares out over the square as everyone hypes themselves up, readying for it – the fight.

Boys first.

"Emmer Blasé." 14 years old.

Three volunteers – a whooping triumphant 18 year old Aquarius Hardshaw takes to the stage, grinning out to the cameras.

Girls next.

Take a deep breath. Clenched fists. Relax shoulders – wait for the fight.

"Tempest Haywire!"

"I volunteer!"

Another insignificant shout to volunteer had echoed a second after mine – and with the brief moment of shock I am given to consider, I realise it was Tally.

Tempest whips around almost immediately, her ash blonde ponytail cutting the air like a scythe.

Her look is one of inarticulate rage, of unbridled fury, her grey eyes flash like two pieces of flint being struck together.

Seria gives a great booming laugh, calling me up to the stage.

But it's not over yet – I haven't won yet.

Tempest charges.

Usually the peacekeepers would have intercepted her but the cameramen are in before them, following her striding towards me.

Despite the slight differences now in our appearances, Tempest and I are undoubtedly twins even at first glance; same straight long white-blonde hair, same slate grey eyes, same pale complexion no matter how much sun we receive yet an identical spattering of slightly darker freckles across our narrow noses and high cheeks.

As the Capitolite cameras follow her eagerly, expecting some display of love – a sister sacrificing herself for a sister; that thought sickens me, almost has me pale and shaking as my mind crams with things I wish I could burn from it with a hot poker.

There'll be a display alright, just not the one they're expecting.

Those around us, who know us - know this isn't going to be any display of sisterly love and they step back leaving us room but still watching from the side-lines; like the fighting pit at the training centre.

"You absolute…" the insult she is about to throw me is instead channelled into her iron white fist.

I let the crimson anger hiss, the senseless violence cloud over useless things like restraint or that last remnant of familial bond.

I dodge and my fist snaps out like a white serpent, catching the underside of her jaw. I feel the entire shock rippling through my fist to her skull before she staggers back, spitting out blood, for a moment disorientated before her expression twists into one of livid anger, "these Games are mine!"

Peacekeepers move but they're shoved back by cameramen and Seria is suddenly commentating on the fight with wide excited eyes and a vicious grin, his voice rapid and rising in pure joy.

This is better than any sappy display of love, of sacrifice – this is District One and in District One we're deadly, we're fighters.

Tempest dives forward again, her feet dancing across the ground with deadly precision as she feints left then right looking for an opening – a weakness.

Oh but sister, I got rid of those a long time ago.

Something desperate flashes in my twin sister's eyes – this is her last year, her last year to prove herself, to rise above us all in glory and awe.

For a moment I can feel the humanity leaking back in through the iron wall I built as the anger rose; but it's gone in a flash.

I have far more reason than glory and awe and any other transient insubstantial thing like that to prove – _I have a debt to pay._

Tempest lunges, I squash down the last of any lingering vestiges of doubt.

Dodge, block, uppercut, knee to the gut – again, again. Her choking grunts with each new hit sound louder than Seria's almost feverish commentating, more than the shouts of those surrounding us, more than the blood pounding in my own ears.

I release her at the opportune moment, shoving her to the ground and there she falls as a hushed silence falls, Seria's voice trailing off.

I can see the rippling of her shoulder blades through her fitted Capitol outfit as she breathes harshly. The tying that held back her hair has snapped and her ash blonde hair falls about her shoulders in the mud like a stained and broken halo.

I've won.

A girl steps forward and helps my sister to her feet.

I almost smirk as I recognise the girl – _Destiny _Williams.

Tempest shrugs the girl off, back ramrod straight, shoulders rigid, head held high.

But she's lost and the whole of Panem has seen it.

Her last and only chance is gone, stolen by me but my sister doesn't cry, _as if, _words; spiteful and angry rest on the tip of her tongue but she won't say them, because she knows how it will make her seem – a sore loser who resorts to bitter words when she has been bested.

When my father said the Reapings would decide, he hadn't meant whose name would be pulled or even who would volunteer first.

This is what he had meant.

Finally I have proven I can enter these Games and I can't help my eyes as they drift about, my breathing evening.

That hushed silence still hangs in the air, almost fragile that everyone fears to break it.

I just see Anderson as he scoffs, rolling his eyes before he stalks off the stage and then I meet my father's eyes; Samson Haywire 30th Hunger Games Victor sitting on his rightful place on the stage.

His gaze meets mine – and it's still _not enough._

_Coward._

I grit my teeth, square my shoulders before I turn sharply, stalking through the crowd.

My movement seems to kick-start everyone into action as Seria's voice booms once more across the gathered crowd that begins to shuffle once more into order to face the stage as a smattering of applause sounds.

"Wasn't that just thrilling," his voice rolls the r's luxuriously on his tongue as he grins impossibly wide at me, welcoming me on stage with a vigorous handshake while I tell him my name.

"Storm Haywire!" Seria shouts into the microphones as he raises my hand triumphantly and the applause loudens.

Seria reaches behind him almost as an afterthought and seizes Aquarius' hand – he shoots me a narrowed glare. My volunteering undoubtedly stole the thunder away from his.

"And Aquarius Hardshaw – your district One's Tributes! May the odds be ever in your favour!"

Ruby stands with a hand resting on her bump with Elson at her side, pressing at the front of the crowd.

Even from here I can see the fierce but non-understanding look on Elson's small face as his gaze flits from the stage where I stand to where Tempest stands, eyes burning in hatred as she stares up at me.

Rose' expression as usual confuses me; she seems sad, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners but there's this little smile tugging at her lips and she nods to me once when I meet her gaze.

I can feel every gaze on me, most scathing, _doubting, _- hating; Tally's, father's…Tempest's.

But these Games are _mine._


End file.
